Toying With Death

The shelves at FAO Schwartz on Westheimer were filled with the plastic and plush replicas of the latest cartoon characters. The toy companies had a vested interest in maintaining variety. The networks knew how to work it; squeaky clean wholesome fun; a host of pan-ethnic collectibles embarking on cookie cutter adventures on either bikes or roller skates. Not a hair out of place, unless the character in question was sporting a new hairstyle that gave rise to a new doll going on sale.

 

Shrouded in fuzzy logic, Brad sank another soda, sucking in the stillness of the Houston sunrise, before it quickly became disrupted by both the 7 am traffic and by the giddy remnants of his sleepless hangover. His nocturnal persistence made him more cynical than usual; at least getting through the working day itself presented a welcome distraction. He propelled his perched foot down from storefront window, with a swiping squeak as he crushed the soda can in one hand tossing it toward the garbage-heaving alley way of the Dairy Queen next door.

 

Peering through the half light into the restaurant’s hand-print tarnished windows, emptiness determined that it was still too early for breakfast. The billboard out front had advertised ‘Egs Bndict’ for only 99 cents for the past two weeks in fading Verdana lettering. However, the point of sale displays inside the store promised something much more appealing; a pint-sized Sesame Street plush doll free with every Kinder Karton. Choose from dippy, yellow do-gooder, Big Bird; fuzzy and blue Grover; Elmo the furry red innocent and Oscar the trashcan Grouch. Or why not collect them all? The toys’ wide-eyed naivety, courtesy of The Children’s Television Workshop, gave them a look of competitive desperation, each begging more fervently than the others to be taken home and loved.

 

Do the right thing: line the pockets of Jim Henson’s Creature Shop, who in cahoots with the faceless fast food chain’s corporate management saved on marketing expenditure thanks to carefully coordinated reciprocal brand alignment. This canny duplicity had an additional benefit; each organization could easily shift the blame onto the other for pushing the childhood obesity envelope.

 

Welcome to Our World of Toys.

 

“Time to Open Up,” Brad announced to himself.

 

Brad had attempted to cheer himself up with a night of shot glass serenity. Carrie had come around and after bucket bongs, beer and Bacardi they’d gone to the new club over on Richmond. But what had promised to be a mutual post-club buddy fuck had resulted in him drunkenly weeping on her shoulder. It just wouldn’t go away. She’d driven him home like a concerned step-parent, not knowing quite how to comfort him, but had refused to come in. She didn’t need this shit either.

 

Work provided some aversion therapy, at least before the store officially opened when Brad could concentrate on replenishing stock. The shelves read like Saturday morning TV listings. The all-empowering She-Ra­; Rainbow Brite and her posse of precious princess pals; Punky Brewster dolls that repeat a string of bolshy catchphrases when the cord in their backs were pulled out and let go; the genetically-modified Wuzzles; the Get-A-Long Gang: biped domesticated and woodland creatures including Montgomery Moose (whose leadership went blissfully uncontested), Zipper Cat, Bingo ‘Bet-It-All’ Beaver, Woolma Lamb, Little Bernice Bear; Keypers, Keypers, keep it safe inside; and Poochie: the toy dog with big sunglasses and fluffy pink ears.

 

Only Bathtime Poochie was different. Little Ben knew it. Bathtime Poochie had pink flannel ears, so you could splash around with her in the bath. A small ‘switch’ at the nape of her neck enabled you to flick her head from side-to-side, allowing the dog to shake her wet ears – just like a real puppy.

 

“Mommy, I need him!” Little Ben dramatically shrieked as if his existence depended on it. “Maybe it does,” thought Brad, waiting for her to concede defeat.

 

“I don’t think Bathtime Poochie would suit you honey,” replied Ben’s mother tactfully, turning her attention to finding a suitable birthday present for her sister’s brat.

 

“But you don’t understand Mommy – I NEED HIM!” Little Ben was even more insistent that Bathtime Poochie was key to his completeness as a physical and spiritual entity. At least his desperation, real or feigned, was consistent.

 

“It’s not a ‘him’ honey, it’s a ‘her’…”

“I NEED HER MOMMY! PUH-LEASE!” Brad knew the pleading would pay off.

“Your Dad’s gonna kill me…but what the hell!”

 

Forcing a smile, Brad made a display of taking the toy from the shelf, smiling at Little Ben as he groaned impatiently, suppressing an impatient squeal, which eventually became a ‘gimme, gimme!’ once Mom had paid and handed the bag over to him. With that, Little Ben ran out of the store, tearing the box open to liberate Bathtime Poochie. The formality of the toy’s packaging loitered on in the car park until it rained the following week. And then, the store was empty. Little Ben would forget about Bathtime Poochie by this time tomorrow. But she’d always be there. A friend to the end.

 

With time, Bathtime Poochie’s pink flannel ears would fade to gray. Discolored by the initial blast of excessive light exposure, her grinning face inviting play into eternity, long after little Ben had died from radiation sickness during the first few weeks of the nuclear winter. His mother, once a bastion of the PTA had begun to eat his remains when a hungry neighbor shot her to death for a scrap of his thigh.

 

Brad just couldn’t help it. The thoughts just kept on coming. It had become increasingly tough to smile as proud parents bought increasing numbers of inane plushies for their spoilt offspring. He’d been desperate to scream at them, tell them not to bother because soon they’d all die, and their futile expenditure would be without purpose. It was the same today. He felt sorry for them all, especially the kids – they were too young to understand. As the weakest they’d be first to go.

 

Eternal Bathtime Poochie of the Apocalypse came to life after everyone else died. Walked into oblivion by a cartoon Punky Brewster into the still embers of the dead world. No burnished orange or musky brown skies with which to appreciate decaying beauty. Just black. Poochie’s leash snagging onward; pulling her pal along on rusty, screeching roller-skates. Punky grinning bravely as she soldiered on, blood seeping from her anus as her internal organs grew more cancerous, droplets of blood splashing on the sidewalk below like a trail of wounded breadcrumbs.

*****

It’d started in a supermarket. Randalls’ on San Felipe to be exact. Brad could in fact pinpoint it to the fresh produce section. He’d happily been filling his cart with a selection of salad items and had moved on to the fruit section. The polished fragrances offered by the modern American supermarket had become life-affirming familiarity. He bagged seven of the biggest, ripest red apples; fresh from the supple orchards of the Pacific Northwest. A baby giggled in a cart across from him, smiling broadly, kicking his untrained legs in infant glee against the bottom of the seat underneath him. The baby’s pretty blonde mom had smiled sweetly at Brad, as if to thank him for keeping her baby amused, whilst she set about peach-prodding.

 

When the baby started cooing and pointing, Brad began to gesture back at him until he realized the child was more interested in the apples than his moronic faces. He picked one up from the display, holding it out in front of him, and mock-offering it to him playfully. The mom had simply said, ‘It’s ok, go ahead,” and with that Brad gently passed the apple to the baby. Not that the kid had any teeth to speak of, just a curiosity about the apple’s shape, smell and taste, gumming the seemingly unblemished red flesh.

 

Smiling, Brad had moved away, turning his attention to his written shopping list when he heard the mother shriek at the top of her voice. The baby began crying too, as his mother snatched the apple from his hands. Dropping it on the floor, she kept trying to hold the baby’s flinching head in place, as she dipped her fingers deeper into his gaping, gargling mouth, her head turned away from his, grimacing slightly, facing Brad, but looking right through him. Eventually she managed to prize it from her son’s mouth, despite his defiant insistence on keeping it wriggling about his tongue, fighting her fingers, slurping the worm back like a string of spaghetti. It was massive; about ten inches long when it had eventually been completely extracted. Mom had wrapped it around her index finger like a fishing reel, except no hook was attached or had managed to lodge in the child’s mouth. She shook the worm away from her finger, turned the cart on its axis, and promptly dashed out of the store, squashing the discarded worm with the cart wheels.

 

Throughout this entire episode Brad had remained still, glued to the spot, unable to offer any assistance, completely frozen and compelled to do nothing else but watch. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he’d later managed to admit the awful truth to himself: he’d secretly hoped the child would choke to death, right there in front of him, at the hands of his helpless mother, all unwittingly orchestrated by Brad himself.  He must’ve meant to do it.

 

From that moment onward, merely functioning brought with it an awful implication. He spent his days avoiding the urge to dream up how a toy he’d sold might potentially harm a child. Maybe he’d sold a toy suitable for ages seven and up to the parent of a four year old? Mom’s back turned for two minutes to get the phone, only to find a still, blue pre-schooler dying in front of her. Stray buttons on a doll’s skirt could easily find their way into a child’s throat; as could a small piece of Lego, or else it could be thrust into an inquisitive orifice. Toxic material found in cheap plastic action figures would be just as effective.

 

It got more elaborate and almost scenic, as he began to imagine soft focus family days when little Betty has the training wheels removed from her bicycle for the very first time. Daddy holding the back of the bike as she pedals quickly across the park to Mommy. They can see she’s gonna do it. A proud moment in her young life. Just over halfway there and a bolt comes loose; the one that holds the back wheel in place. Hearing a faint noise, she breaks sharply just as the wheel falls away. Losing her balance she takes a tumble, twisting her neck as she falls. Mommy rushes over. Her precious baby girl.

 

The anxiety was so immense that almost anything and everything could make his stomach churn and his bowels stream, like brown tears of sympathy. It wasn’t queasiness, but the cold softness of expiration. The unspoken, unexposed consequences of individual death – the fatherless child; the attendant widow unwittingly awaiting her husband’s arrival; the childless parents at Thanksgiving, listening stoically to ticking clocks in the silence of their humble grief. The human tragedy was what mattered.

 

He had returned to the scene of the crime a few days ago, slowly investigating each aisle in reverse. He entered the building via the exit and was nearly knocked over by an old lady on a motorized mobility scooter. He could smell the bakery section, as the scent of freshly baked bread invited him deeper into the store. All ok for now. Snack food stacked from floor to ceiling: endless rows of soda cans available in a variety of fruit flavors, concocted by some of the World’s greatest scientists using synthetic chemical mimesis; gooey chocolate-junk-made-mainstream-snack thanks to innovative product names that include the suffix ‘-ies’ or ‘-ios’; barely palatable anomalies like Frito Salad and canned cheese; the stalwarts of family nourishment, ready to be hidden away in cupboards and refrigerators until the Great American Appetite awoke.

 

Worst of all were the inane grins of cartoon creatures, etched on the front of breakfast cereal boxes. The happy animal endorsees posed with spoons and over-ecstatic expressions, blissfully unaware that they’d been made gatekeepers of childhood obesity, malnourishment, and ADD. For Brad, it was like looking in a mirror. The secret, unspoken pact he made with parents every time he sold a toy. For the kids it was win-win, because busy parents were all too eager to placate their sugar-high brats with more of the same shit, not realizing they were worsening the situation by pandering to their demands.

 

Eventually he did pluck up enough courage to face the fruit section, sanitized to the point of perfection. The realization struck him as he approached the apples; the horrifying truth let itself enter his consciousness. Everyone in this room would cease to exist in the next 80 years; including him. He suddenly began to feel dizzy, and collapsed on the supermarket floor, clawing at the apples as he fell. The last thing he could remember was a flood of red apples hitting him hard like sadistic hailstones.

 

The entire chain of events had unraveled themselves over the next few days. He knew he’d left the store and run across to Yorktown, concealing himself in the leafy bushes adjacent to The Art Institute, before he’d gone inside to call Carrie to come get him. He’d waited shiftily in parking lot, sweating in the fierce humidity, fending off a cloud of mosquitoes by chain smoking, when it hit him again. Bang. There it was. Death was waiting for him, and he couldn’t shake it.

 

It was at that moment the first image from of his tumble in the apples came to him once again, as he drifted into imagined consequences. All he could think about was a pair of false teeth, the kind with feet that you wind up, let go and then watch as the feet hop away, the teeth chattering together. Only these weren’t clockwork, nor did they have feet. They were real, false teeth. The kind grandma would be forced to slurp soup, grits or mashed potato without. He could see them clearly enough, though he couldn’t recall having seen any up close before. It dawned on him that they were watching him, mocking his stupidity. Of course you’re going to die! Everyone does! What makes you so goddamn special?

 

That night he continued to consider the inevitable in his own unique way; which led him to contemplate gory front page newspaper exclusives in which his death paid a small, nameless part.

 

Killing Spree in The Galleria. He’d just been emerging from the Blockbuster Video store, when a crazed gunman picked him off quickly with a double barrel shotgun, before blasting a massive hole in a pregnant woman, who nearly full-term, had watched her womb split open in horror, and her unborn child slip from her bloody belly and dangle helpless and dead from her umbilical cord as if attempting to bungee jump to safety.

 

The newspaper would mention the full horror of that for sure, but gloss over him completely. He’d be lucky if they even bothered to mention his tender age of 23; his whole life ahead of him. But even that didn’t carry the same severity as a pregnant mother and unborn child unraveling in gory determination.

 

But it was him that died! Bradley Thomas West! He could see the local news crew interviewing his parents back in Omaha, his mother’s tears getting a brief mention on the Eight O’clock news, followed by a brief glimpse of his gawky high school graduation photo and the obligatory numerical eulogy; but only if it was a really slow news day.

 

Carrie lay next to him asleep. Still in her slumber, unperturbed by the demons he faced. He watched her closely, but could see her chest rise and fall. Her ample breasts lay parted, gently sagging either side of her. The red glow of the digital clock read 1:02 am.

 

If death had a time, what time would it be? Does it strike differently for everyone?

 

“Perhaps this is my time,” he thought out loud.

 

Brad had felt the uniqueness of his own death when the enormity of it struck. Then it really mattered because he knew it would, definitely, 100% happen, and he had no control over the timing. Or did he? Not that he could contemplate taking his own life, because he didn’t want to die. It was the fear that was worst of all; the accompanying anxiety of death realization.

 

But then it struck him again; but this time, as if he could see it for what it really was. Death had always been around, but it was something that happened to someone else. Of course it did. Those who were alive could only know the surface of it; second or third hand death. That way it could be funny, superfluous and meaningless. Reports were passed down and along but never the actual experience, save for the sadness, grief and pain that it brought. Death could not be fully known until it happened, and then perhaps it was enjoyable for those experiencing it. It was hard to believe and too easy to assume that the dying party felt the same about their departure as those left behind. Perhaps the means by which death came made it more or less bearable, but then of course there was mega-death; the simultaneous expiration of millions.

Total Human Annihilation.

 

The prospect of nuclear war was the closest and most personal fear Brad could contemplate. At least under other deadly circumstances the World would continue to turn as ever before, minus certain individuals. The concept of Apocalypse however, brought about the destruction of the very fabric of familiarity, distorting and poisoning the few remaining elements out of recognition.

 

A world without society would still flourish, but on Nature’s terms. But, the overarching stench of death would hang like a plague of locusts, abundant among the last human denizens.

 

As Brad fought with these ideas, he felt a strong need to be among people, in order to feel alive. Better to be among the dying masses, than to die alone in isolation. He remembered Little Ben and his Bathtime Poochie doll. He could see her face grinning even more clearly in the dark reaches of his nocturnal imagination.

                                                            *****

The night was in full swing by the time he reached Numbers over on Richmond. He had walked most of the way, but hailed a cab when he reached the Double Tree Hotel at the Galleria. The heady smells of the night city had refreshed him, as he sat in the back of the cab, with the window down; much to the annoyance of the driver who begrudgingly tolerated the interference of a hot air blast into the cool sanctuary of his air-conditioned car. ‘Don’t fuck with a fare’ was a motto that had saved his ass on many an obtuse evening.

 

The walls throbbed with a lilting bass line, as Brad handed over his I.D. to the security guard. He said something, but both knew it had fallen on deaf ears. A swathe of possibilities moved in slow-motion as Blue Monday hammered on through the Day-Glo darkness.

 

A short, stocky black girl, dressed in a sari, danced through the curtain of plaited dreadlocks covering her face. Her hands, marked with intricate henna patterns and ornate gold jewelry, twisted slowly, mock Arabian-style out of cadence to the music itself. Two beautiful Hispanic models, dressed in revealing white tops and linen slacks caressed each other, gyrating in unison. A small gathering of college jocks watched from the dark camouflage of a nearby table, eyes fixed firmly on the two Latinas, as they swigged from their beer bottles in silent synchronicity.

 

Brad took his time to take it all in. It was if everyone was under the spell of the music. Those on the dance floor carved an individual dance identity to complement or critique the ebb and flow of the beat. Their masks of utmost seriousness made them seem almost alien-like, blue in skin tone. It was as if a different world had presented itself to him; that of the clandestine night city, where familiarity had been abandoned, if only for a short while.

 

As a screen slowly descended from the ceiling, the music flowed seamlessly into Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus. Brad stood and watched in awe of the entire spectacle; the blurring picture only enhancing the detached nature of the music video itself ­­– desolate, colorless cowboys adrift in monochrome meaninglessness.

 

Pick up the receiver; I’ll make you a Believer.

 

It might have the overwhelming unfamiliarity of the situation that caused the fear hit him once again; all the eerie ingredients were there. But it wasn’t that at all. It was her that triggered it; putting him right back in the supermarket where it all began.

 

A simple tap on the shoulder had escaped him. A shove got his attention. Looking at him sternly amid the exotic night creatures was a pretty blonde mom. Despite her diminutive stature, Sharon stood out like a sore thumb; her red checked shirt tied across the midriff revealed her misshapen navel. Black heels and white denim skirt. Slutty Dolly meets the Martians.

 

Brad gulped, his face pleading unfamiliarity, but Sharon knew full well what she was going to say.

 

“You’re the motherfucker who tried to poison my kid!”

Her angry tones were muted by the surrounding sound montage.

“Huh?” Brad pretended not to hear, so Sharon leaned in closer, her neck already outstretched to its fullest extent, as she peered up at him fiercely.

“You. In Randalls. An apple. My kid, the wor…”

 

He tried to walk away before she could finish, but she insistently grabbed him by the arm.

 

“That how you get your kicks motherfucker?” she growled in White Trash Texan tones.

“No, I wasn’t trying to…” Brad thought it best to admit defeat. “Listen, I’m real sorry about the whole thing.”

“You’re sorry now, for sure but…”

“I came back. To look for you, but it was too late.” He didn’t need to try and sound genuine now.

 

Sharon looked away in defiance, shooting him a look after only a brief pause. Her flared nostrils had calmed – her face gave away the fact that she wasn’t as angry as she’d first made out.

 

“I…I hope he’s ok. I’m not a parent myself, but I like kids, well not like, like them. I work in a toy store, FAO Schwarz over on Westheimer, maybe I could get him a gift to make up for the whole thing...”

 

His groveling was charming, if not a little goofy.

“Just start by getting me another beer!”

 

                                                            *****

It was the same cab driver on the way back. Again the driver’s motto held fast, but as befit all middle-aged cab drivers of a similar ilk, he adjusted his rear view mirror for a better view. He was greeted by Brad sporting an evil smirk, staring back at him with defiant eyes as Sharon kissed him full-on. Though this distraction forced the driver’s view away, the intensity of the action urged him to stare on. Forming an unspoken understanding with Brad, he relaxed into an erection as Brad unveiled her neatly trimmed cunt, roughly shoving three of his digits in and out of her rhythmically, his thumb occasionally toying with her clit and pussy lips, whilst his little finger playfully perused her perineum.

 

Just across from the Galleria, Sharon could see the toy store. Dark empty and inviting.

 

“I want you to fuck me in the toy store” she demanded curtly in his ear, following this with a girlish giggle.

 “Hey pull over here!” Brad bellowed at the driver.

“Where d’y’all need to be at?” he enquired, trying to sound helpful, but decisively buying himself a little more time.

“Man, just pull over. I’ll pay you a fuckin’ fifty!” Brad could tell that his drunken commands and feigned generosity weren’t all that well-received. He reasoned that the driver didn’t give a fuck either. Sharon clung to Brad, giggling as she crossed her legs, before leaning across him, burying her head in his lap.

 

As he got out of the cab, Brad suddenly found himself fumbling for his keys, but oblivious to this, Sharon grabbed him by the balls and pushed him up against the glass front window.

 

“What the fuck…!” she drunkenly heaved with laughter, recoiling. “You’re gonna fuck me and the toys can watch it all!”                                                      

 

He kicked the back door open on the 20^th attempt, at Sharon’s insistence. She quickly pushed past him, skipping through the store yelling and whooping as she went wild in the aisles. Brad’s efforts to catch her were scuppered by her impromptu game of hide and seek, but when he finally did, they collapsed on top of a display of giant stuffed bears catching their breath before she shimmied across and straddled his lap. He reached for her ass cheeks, but she stopped him, wagging her index finger whilst playfully tutting.

 

“I’m not ready yet!” she snapped. “Stand up and drop your pants.” Brad did as he was told, before she took him at half-mast into her mouth. He closed his eyes, and let it happen.

 

Brad brushed away all thoughts of guilt and made a conscious decision to live in that very moment. He could feel it coming, but he didn’t care.

 

Through the still blue twilight, Brad began to see the image of the choking child clearer than ever before, right there on his knees in front of him, the same face looked up at him square in the eyes, a determined expression, as Sharon sucked his cock with the same diligence that her son had shown with the worm in his mouth.  

 

He hated himself most of all because he was enjoying it, groaning louder to stifle his guilt.

 

The boxed toys on the surrounding shelves whispered to each other, hands clasped to ears, as they passed the message along the line. He-Man to Skeletor to Hordak to She-Ra to Rainbow Brite to Indigo to Montgomery Moose to Zipper Cat to Bingo ‘Bet-it-all’ Beaver to Little Bernice Bear; all chanting the same thing over and over again.

 

“Look he’s dying!” they squealed. “He’s dying right there in front of us!”

 

The giggling became unbearable, as he felt the fear rearing up once more in his bowels.

 

With a stream of diarrhea pissing out of his quivering butthole, Brad danced naked towards the store exit, his pants around his ankles and a five inch erection quickly going flaccid. Leaving a trail of liquid feces behind him, the only indication that Sharon’s face was coated with anal pebble-dash were her horrified screams.

Running at full pelt across Westheimer, naked with his hands covering his ears, eyes closed, Brad didn’t even have the chance to consider any final glances or whimsical death theatricals as the black GMC truck slammed into him at 80 miles per hour.  

 

Somewhere across town, Bathtime Poochie shook her head from side to side, as Little Ben slept on oblivious.